I-NRLF 


PS 

2459 

M43 


BBffi&S^ 

__..  _._  _ 

LIBRJS 


DEACONS 


W.    H.   H.    MURRAY, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ADVENTURES  IN  THE  WILDERNESS,' 
"MUSIC-HALL  SERMONS,"  &c.,  &c. 


BOSTON : 
HENRY    L.    SHEPARD   AND    COMPANY, 

(LATE   SlIEPAKI)  &  GILL.) 

1875. 


Kntered  according  t<5      «t  of  Cofygr$$''ip  •&«  >"ear  1874»  by 

ijKMi^.-L.'Siji^ARp  &  99-*''. 

In  the  Office  of'the-'  'Ltbrarirfw  'of  tongw^,'  Vtc  Washington. 


Sir.UK«iTYI'KI>    HY    C     J.    PKTKIIS    &    SON, 

73  FKKKRAI,  ST.,  BOSTON. 


PRESS  OF  RAND,  AVERY,  &  Co. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE. 

DEACON  GOODHEART Frontispiece. 

OUT-DOOR  ORTHODOXY,  HEAD-PIECE 10 

"  PRETTY  SOON  THE  SPARKS  AVILL  BEGIN  TO  FLY  "     .        .        .        .12 

DEACON  SLOAVUP 19 

"His  LITTLE  SHRUNKEN  CHEEKS  ACTUALLY  PUFFED  OUT"      .        .    21 
"BILL  STEVENS  ASSURED  HIS  WONDERING  FOLLOWERS"  ...    23 
"  THE  PROGRESSIVES  WERE  JUBILANT  .  .  .  NOT  so  WITH  THE  CON 
SERVATIVES"        .        .        .        .24 

"AT  THIS  POINT  DEACON  SLOWUP  GOT  THE  FLOOR"  .  .  .28 
"THE  SYMBOL  OF  CHRISTIANITY  WAS  A  RENT  BANNER"  .  .  .35 
"IT  MADE  THE  SEWING-SOCIETY  LIVELY  FOR  TWO  "WEEKS  "  .  .  40 

DEACON  SHARPFACE 43 

"HE  LISTENED  TO  EVERY  SERMON" 40 

"His  WIFE  KNEW  THAT  BEST"      ....  ...    47 

"MY  EYES  ARE  OPEN,  BROTHER" 52 

"THESE  CATHEDRALS  OF  EXCLUSIVENESS" 00 

"!T  WAS  NIGHT" r>7 

"HE  TWISTED  HIMSELF  ABOUT" 71 

"THE  MORE  HE  SLID,  THE  LOUDER  HE  LAUGHED"     .        .        .        .74 

"!T  WAS  THE  HOME  OF  DESOLATION" 77 

"HE  BROKE  OUT,  AND  SOBBED  ALOUD,"  TAIL-PIECE  .        .        .        .82 


M181747 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE. 


ON  giving  "Deacons  "  to  my  publishers,  and  through  them 
to  the  public,  a  word  from  the  author  may  be  expected,  at 
least  permitted. 

The  lecture  was  written  to  call  the  attention  of  the  Church 
and  people  to  the  perversion  and  abuse  of  an  office  in  our  Con 
gregational  churches  which  was  created  to  assist  the  pastors 
by  relieving  them  from  much  of  the  detail  work  of  the  parish, 
that  they  might  give  their  thoughts  more  entirely  to  the 
preaching  of  the  Word;  but  which,  through  certain  causes,  to 
day  fulfils  no  such  service. 

In  the  second  place,  and  above  all,  I  wished  to  inculcate  the 
sweet  lesson  of  charity  and  forgiveness,  both  as  regards  prac 
tical  alms-giving,  and  also  as  regards  intellectual  differences  in 
matters  of  belief.  With  such  a  motive,  the  lecture  was  com 
posed,  and  delivered  first  in  Music  Hall,  1871.  When  deliv 
ered  first,  there  were  only  seventeen  engagements  secured  for 
it;  and,  for  reasons  which  I  could  never  understand,  nearly 
all  the  religious  press  were,  directly  or  indirectly,  unfriendly  in 

7 


8  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

•their  criticism  of  it.  But  there  seemed  to  be  something  in 
it  that  the  people  were  willing  to  hear ;  for  it  was  called 
for  over  one  hundred  times  that  season,  and  has  since  been 
demanded  by  lyceums  until  it  has  been  heard  before  almost 
every  course  in  New  England,  and,  I  presume,  by  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  people.  It  is  to  that  portion  of 
this  large  number,  who,  having  heard  the  lecture,  expressed  the 
earnest  wish  that  I  would  ultimately  allow  it  to  be  published, 
that  I  now  dedicate  it.  With  me  it  has  always  been  a  favor 
ite.  Its  composition  gave  me  delight,  and  needed  discipline  ; 
while  by  it  I  have  been  brought  into  pleasant  relations  with 
many  delightful  people,  and  have  done  something,  I  trust,  to 
bring  men  into  relations  of  kindness  and  brotherhood.  That 
it  may  continue  and  perpetuate  this  influence,  is  the  sincere 
wish  of  the  author. 

W.  H.  H.  MUBRAY. 


*  DEACONS* 


-OUT  DOOR  ORTHODOXY- 

IN  New  England,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  student 
of  human  nature  runs  across  all  sorts  of  characters. 
Classes  and  types  are  as  distinct  as  geologic  strata. 
The  strictest  individuality  abounds  everywhere.  Now, 
a  Frenchman  is  a  Frenchman,  an  Englishman  is 
an  Englishman,  and  a  Jew,  as  you  all  know,  is  a  Jew, 
the  world  over.  They  represent  their  several  nations. 
They  are  only  the  pattern  of  millions  of  others  just 
like  themselves.  But  here  in  New  England  it  is 


10  DEACONS. 

different.  Here  there  is  no  national  type.  A  Yankee 
is  a  nation  in  himself.  No  one  is  like  his  neighbor. 
You  cannot  go  into  any  New-England  village,  and  find 
two  men  who  look  alike.  You  can  scarcely  go  into 
a  New-England  family,  and  find  two  children  who 
look  alike.  The  blonde  and  the  brunette,  the  light  and 
dark  haired,  the  lean  and  the  stout,  eat  at  the  same 
family  table,  and  bear  the  same  family  name.  Bigotry 
and  liberality  sit  side  by  side  in  the  same  church-pew. 
Progression  and  old-fogyism  sing  piously  from  the  same 
hymn-book.  New-England  character  is  diversified. 
Like  the  scenery  of  the  Adirondacks,  every  look  you 
take  at  it  is  a  revelation. 

In  nothing  is  this  diversity,  this  antagonism  of  char 
acter,  so  prominent  as  in  ecclesiastical  affairs.  When 
the  descendant  of  the  Puritan  enters  the  realm  of 
religion,  his  intense  personality  begins  to  staim  faetflT. 
It  is  such  a  revelation  of  his  inner  natujfe  as  the 
tree  makes  of  its  nature,  when,  in  June,  it  puts 
forth  its  leaves.  In  religious  matters,  the  typical 
Yankee  never  shams.  Cool,  calculating,  stoical,  as 
to  every  thing  else,  touch  him  with  a  catechism,  and 
you  will  see  the  flash  of  his  eyes  through  the  holes  in 


THE  TYPICAL  AMERICAN.  11 

his  mask.  Cautious  and  secretive  in  every  thing  else, 
he  is  frankness  itself  touching  what  he  believes  or 
does  not  believe,  in  reference  to  religion.  You  take  a 
dozen  men  out  of  this  audience  to-night,  and  ask  them 
what  they  think  about  total  depravity,  and  you  will 
find  that  each  has  a  very  positive  opinion  of  his  own. 
Assertion  will  be  set  over  against  assertion.  Like  knives 
drawn  against  each  other,  they  will  warm  up  as  they 
proceed.  Their  language  will  sharpen  until  it  cuts. 
By  and  by  their  tempers  will  clash.  Pretty  soon  the 
sparks  will  begin  to  fly  ;  and,  before  they  have  been  at 
it  half  an  hour,  the  doctrine  will  be  proved  by  their 
conduct. 

In  respect  to  religion,  then,  the  typical  American  is 
both  individual  and  talkative.  He  cannot  agree,  and 
he  cannot  keep  silent.  He  is  a  natural  partisan.  To 
argue,  dispute,  deny,  is,  with  him,  a  matter  of  con 
science.  Every  man  here  to-night  is  his  own  pope, 
and  every  man  cordially  believes  that  his  pope  is  in 
fallible. 

From  this  diversity  of  views,  this  individuality  and 
antagonism  of  opinion,  sects  arise,  and  denominations  are 
multiplied  in  our  midst.  The  American  is  not  lacking 


12 


DEACONS. 


in  reverence  for  the  Deity  ;  that  is  not  it :  but  he  is 
determined  to  have  a  Deity  that  suits  himself.  In 
England,  in  France,  in  Germany,  people  are  content  to 
worship  in  one  place.  They  accept  one  foim  of  eccle- 


"  PRETTY  SOON  THE   SPAIJKS   WILL  BEGIN  TO   FLY." 

siastical  government :  they  subscribe  to  one  order  of 
service.  If  they  have  differences,  they  are  politely 
and  decorously  waived.  The  established  order  is 
recognized  as  essential,  and  tolerated  if  it  is  not  ad- 


THE   PARSON,    THE  COLONEL,  THE   ESQUIRE.         13 

mired.  Progress  is  less  rapid ;  but  there  is  more  peace 
and  quietness  than  we  have  here.  But  with  us  the 
condition  of  things  is  entirely  different.  Independence 
of  views  is  universal.  The  love  of  argument  and  the 
habit  of  disputation  are  national  characteristics. 

This  is  also  noticeable  in  our  history.  New  England 
was  never  harmonious  within  itself.  In  its  principles, 
as  well  as  in  its  administration  of  government,  it  existed 
the  very  embodiment  of  contradictions.  Politically  it 
was  dedicated  to  freedom,  and  yet  it  held  slaves.  Its 
birth-cry  was  liberty  of  conscience ;  and  yet  it  banished 
the  peaceful  Quaker,  and  scourged  the  Baptist  through 
the  streets  of  Boston.  In  name,  in  the  voice  of  its 
own  affirmation,  it  was  a  democracy  ;  and  yet,  in  point 
of  fact,  I  presume,  that,  in  no  other  country  on  the 
globe,  were  the  lines  between  the  poor  and  the  rich, 
the  titled  and  the  unhonored,  ever  more  sharply  drawn. 
The  parson  of  a  New-England  church,  a  century  ago, 
was  a  great  village  dignitary,  made  such  by  no  wish 
or  effort  of  his  own,  but  by  the  custom  and  habits  of 
the  age.  He,  with  the  " colonel "  and  "esquire"  of 
the  village,  were  the  ruling  potentates.  These  three 
men  dictated  its  political,  social,  and  religious  life,  to  an 


14  DEACONS. 

extent  that  we,  of  freer  habits  of  thought  and  speech, 
cannot  realize.  Their  word  was  literally  law.  Nothing 
in  the  parish  was  undertaken  without  their  co-operation. 
Nothing  could  prosper,  that  they  and  their  families  did 
not  inaugurate,  or  at  least  favor. 

This  aristocratic  element,  strange  to  say,  was  most 
visible  where  we  might  expect  it  to  be  entirely  absent, 
—  in  the  administration  of  religion,  —  the  religion,  too, 
of  the  simple,  unformal  Saviour.  The  house  of  God,  in 
which  all  mere  human  distinctions  should  fade  away, 
was  made  to  perpetuate  these  ;  and  the  sanctuary,  even 
in  the  allotment  of  its  sittings,  became  a  sort  of  adver 
tising  card  by  which  was  proclaimed  the  social  status 
of  the  worshippers.  To  be  an  officer  of  a  church,  in 
those  days,  was  to  be  a  dignitary.  Office  gave  rank. 
It  lifted  the  man  himself,  and  lifted  his  family  socially. 
What,  in  the  scriptural  appointment,  designated  a 
man  for  an  humble  service,  in  the  New-England 
church  elected  him  to  a  distinction,  and  ministered 
to  his  pride.  Men  naturally  grew  to  love  the  honor, 
and  forget  the  humility,  of  the  original  service,  as 
founded  in  Stephen's  time,  until  the  office  at  last 
was  given  as  a  reward  for  uncommon  piety,  or  what 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  DEACON.  15 

was  supposed  to  be  such ;  and  the  "  deacon,"  in 
stead  of  being  a  co-laborer  with  the  pastor,  releasing 
him  from  the  detail  work  of  the  administration,  came, 
at  length,  to  be  a  kind  of  ornamental  assistant  at  one 
of  the  two  sacraments.  The  original  service  being  lost 
sight  of,  the  office  came  to  be  regarded  as  bestowing 
a  certain  rank  and  dignity  upon  the  holder  of  it, 
which  the  appointing  power  itself  could  not  justly  take 
from  him. 

This  anomalous  state  of  things  no  longer  exists. 
Politically,  the  democratic  element  has  triumphed  in 
our  polity,  until  it  has  swept  away  the  stately  habits, 
and  titles  of  address,  that  once  marked  distinctions  in 
New  England.  If  any  of  these  gentlemen  present 
should  have  occasion  to  address  a  letter  to  Patrick 
Finnegan  or  Michael  O 'Flaherty,  they  would,  I  pre 
sume,  put  the  once  honorable  title  of  "Esquire"  after 
the  name ;  especially  if  they  expected  to  be  nominated 
to  an  office  in  their  ward.  The  dominie  is  no  longer  a 
dignitary.  I  travel  a  good  deal  in  the  country,  where 
I  always  make  it  a  point  to  carry  myself  most  minis 
terially.  Indeed,  I  might  say  that  I  am  noted  in  this 
respect.  But  I  never  see  a  row  of  little  sunburnt, 


16  DEACONS. 

chubby-faced  urchins  ranged  up  against  the  side  of  the 
schoolhouse,  hat  in  hand,  as  I  move  slowly,  and  with 
august  expression  on  my  features,  past  the  little  fel 
lows,  as  I  might  have  seen,  had  I  filled  the  office 
which  I  hold  a  century  ago. 

But,  although  the  "esquire"  and  "parson"  have 
passed  away,  the  "  deacon  "  still  lives ;  not  as  a  class, 
but  here  and  there  as  a  remnant,  an  exception,  we 
will  say.  Almost  every  church  has  one  o~  more  who 
represent  the  reverse  of  progress,  of  fitness  for  the 
office,  of  humility,  of  charity.  Wherever  you  find  one 
of  this  kind,  he  is  a  marked  man.  I  can  sit  in  the 
pulpit,  and  pick  him  out  from  among  a  thousand.  He 
is  as  different  from  the  mass  of  Christians,  as  a  crab  is 
from  fish,  or  a  zebra  from  cattle.  I  will  run  cursorily 
over  the  list.  There  is  the  bigoted,  narrow-minded 
deacon.  I  knew  one  once  so  narrow-minded,  that 
you  had  to  hold  him  up,  and  look  at  him  sidewise, 
to  see  that  he  had  any  mind  at  all.  There,  too,  is  the 
querulous  deacon,  who  fights  his  pastor  with  the  same 
fervor  with  which  he  prays  for  the  heathen,  and  with 
about  the  same  effect ;  and  the  heresy-hunting  deacon, 
who  watches  the  pulpit  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat-hole,  in 


IT 


order  to  pounce  upon  some  unfortunate  sentence  or 
quotation,  and  goes  trotting  down  the  centre-aisle  after 
the  benediction,  his  eyes  fairly  snapping  with  sup 
pressed  satisfaction  that  he  has  scented  out  one  more 
proof  that  his  pastor  is  "  unsound  in  the  faith."  Then, 
there  is  the  timid  deacon :  you  all  know  him,  afraid  of 
the  smallest  thing,  even  his  own  shadow,  and  who  is 
always  worrying  in  his  goodness,  and  trembling  that  his 
minister  will  do  something  to  hurt  his  influence  ;  for 
getful  of  the  great  fact,  which  hangs  like  a  pillar  of  cloud 
and  fire  before  the  path  of  every  public  man  in  America, 
that  if  he  does  what  seems  to  him  needed,  and  keeps  in 
the  main  right,  God  will  take  care  of  his  influence. 
And  then,  there  is  tho  old-fogy  deacon,  —  the  best  speci 
men  I  ever  saw  was  nominally  only  forty-three  years  of 
age,  though  in  point  of  fact  he  was  older  than  Methu 
selah  ;  and  the  deacon  who  leads  the  choir,  and  knows 
better  than  the  pastor  how  to  select  the  hymns.  And 
last,  but  not  least,  the  deacon  who  studied  two  terms 
in  the  theological  seminary,  and  whom  the  sewing- 
society  of  his  native  village  was  educating  to  send  as  a 
missionary  to  the  heathen,  but  who  didn't  go,  for  two 
reasons  :  first,  because  the  sewing-society  got  into  a  sis- 


18  DEACONS. 

terly  fight,  and  broke  up,  and  the  funds  failed  ;  and, 
second,  because  he  himself  failed  to  pass  his  examina 
tion  at  the  end  of  the  second  term  ;  all  of  which  was 
ordered  by  Providence  in  mercy  to  the  heathen.  These 
are  several  of  the  typical  deacons  which  I  have  met 
and  known  in  my  service  and  journeying  up  and  down 
through  New  England.  Descending  now  from  the 
general  to  the  specific,  friends,  I  will  sketch  you  the 
portrait  of  three  in  detail.  The  first  I  present  to  you  is 
Deacon  Slowup,  senior  deacon  of  the  First  Congrega 
tional  Church  of  Fossil ville.  And  I  select  an  interest 
ing  and  critical  time  in  the  history  of  this  church,  in 
order  to  get  a  suitable  frame  for  the  picture  I  am  to 
paint. 

A  momentous  event  impended  over  Fossilville.  The 
Congregational  Church,  of  which  Deacon  Slowup  was 
senior  deacon,  after  much  deliberation  had  voted,  seven 
teen  to  four,  to  have  a  picnic.  To  be  sure,  this  decision 
had  not  been  reached  without  the  expenditure  of  much 
time,  and  not  a  little  manoeuvring,  on  the  part  of  those 
who  had  the  matter  in  hand.  It  had  taken  three  sew 
ing-bees,  four  sociables,  two  sermons,  thirty-nine  pastoral 
visitations,  and  one  church-meeting,  to  accomplish  it. 


DEACON    SLOW  UP. 


THE   CHURCH    PICNIC. 


21 


But  the  pastor  and  his  coadjutors  had  carried  the  day, 
and  the  thing  was  settled.  As  I  have  said,  it  was  a 
momentous  event ;  and,  as  the  appointed  day  drew  near, 
Fossil ville  was  convulsed  as  never  before.  The  children 


"HIS   LITTLE   SHRUNKEN   CHEEKS   ACTUALLY   PUFFED   OUT." 

were  hilarious.  They  had  never  had  a  picnic ;  and 
hence  their  knowledge  was  beautifully  indefinite.  Tom 
Hazard  said  that  it  was  a  kind  of  Fourth  of  July  without 
the  fire-crackers.  Little  Jimmy  Finch,  —  whose  father 


22  DEACONS. 

was  dead,  and  whose  mother  took  in  washing  for  a  liv 
ing,  and  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it  in  trying  to  clothe 
and  feed  the  three  little  Finches,  —  Jimmy  wished  to 
know  if  it  wouldn't  be  a  kind  of  Thanksgiving  ;  and 
when  Martha  Simpson  assured  him  that  it  would  be, 
only  a  great  deal  better,  and  told  him  that  there  would 
be  puddings  as  big  as  he  could  lift,  and  bushel-baskets 
full  of  sandwiches,  his  little  shrunken  cheeks  actually 
puffed  out,  and  he  loosened  two  buttons  of  his  waist 
coat  in  anticipation.  Bill  Stevens,  a  kind  of  oracle  to 
the  school,  whose  father  was  a  doctor,  and  something  of 
a  wag, — Bill  Stevens  assured  his  wondering  followers 
that  it  was  a  religious  April  Fool's  Day,  in  which  the 
deacons  tripped  each  other  up,  the  minister  had  a  foot 
race  with  the  sexton,  and  old  Miss  Delia  Mitchel  would 
roll  the  trencher  for  four  hours  and  a  half  with  Col. 
Joshua  Stubbs.  He  said  he  guessed  he  knew,  for  his 
father  had  told  him  so  that  very  morning  at  breakfast. 

But,  if  the  little  folks  were  excited,  the  elderly 
people  were  not  less  so. 

The  progressives  were  jubilant.  They  congratulated 
each  other  slyly  on  the  streets,  they  squeezed  the  pas 
tor's  hand  when  they  met  him,  they  exchanged  signifi- 


THE    PROGRESSIVES    AND   CONSERVATIVES. 


23 


cant  looks  as  they  went  into  church  of  Sundays.  They 
realized  the  magnitude  of  their  triumph,  and  enjoyed 
it  hugely.  The}7  felt  that  a  brighter  day  was  dawning 
for  Fossil ville.  Not  so  with  the  conservatives.  They 


"BILL  STEVENS  ASSURED  HIS  WONDERING  FOLLOWERS." 

were  in  a  state  of  solemn  anxiety.  They  shook  their 
heads  gravely  one  at  another  as  they  went  out  of  the 
meeting  after  the  vote  to  hold  the  picnic  was  carried. 
When  approached  in  conversation  by  the  pastor,  who 


24 


DEACONS. 


wished  to  smooth  their  somewhat  ruffled  tempers,  they 
said,  "  It  was  a  momentous  step,  and  a  terrible  respon 
sibility  for  a  church  to  take  upon  itself ;  but  they  hoped 
the  Lord  would  overrule  it  for  good."  But  they  had 


"THE  PROGRESSIVES  WERE  JUBILANT.    . 
CONSERVATIVES. ' ' 


NOT    SO    WITH   THE 


their  fears  ;  yes,  they  had  their  fears.  Several  of  the  more 
venerable  female  members,  unable  to  endure  the  strain 
upon  their  nervous  systems,  took  sick ;  and  Dr.  Stevens, 
for  once,  had  his  hands  full.  The  morning  before  the 


DEACON   SLOWUP.  25 

picnic  lie  sent  an  extra  five-dollar  bill  to  the  financial 
committee,  in  a  note  in  which  he  said  that  the  enclosed 
was  a  business  investment  to  encourage  future  picnics. 

At  last  the  evening  preceding  the  day  of  the  picnic 
came.  A  meeting  for  u  all  interested  "  had  been  called 
to  meet  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  conference-room.  I  need 
not  say  that  it  was  crowded.  Everybody  was  there. 
The  pastor  called  the  meeting  to  order  promptly,  and 
invited  Deacon  Slowup  to  open  with  prayer.  Now,  the 
deacon  had  but  one.  It  had  served  him  well,  on  all  occa 
sions,  for  thirty-five  years ;  but  a  dim  suspicion  flashed 
through  his  mind,  as  he  arose,  that  it  would  not  answer 
for  a  picnic.  Everybody  was  on  tiptoe  of  curiosity  to 
see  how  he  would  begin.  The  deacon  realized  the 
gravity  of  the  moment,  and  what  there  was  at  stake. 
He  did  his  best  to  begin  appropriately.  It  was  too 
much.  The  tyranny  of  habit  was  too  strong  upon  him. 
He  hesitated,  stammered,  coughed,  cleared  his  throat 
in  the  traditional  way,  and  then  gave  it  up.  He  swung 
into  his  old  form,  with  a  long  breath  of  relief,  and  went 
through  the  whole  thing,  with  all  its  verbal  inflections,  its 
vocal  lapses  and  swellings,  and  snapped  off  the  u  Amen  " 
with  a  little  more  than  his  customary  vigor  at  the  close. 

3 


26  DEACONS. 

He  sat  down.  His  prayer  had  manifestly  affected  not  a 
few  of  his  audience.  Several  handkerchiefs  were  visible. 
Flushed  faces  were  everywhere.  The  pastor's  eyes 
were  moist.  But  he  was  a  man  of  excellent  nerve,  and 
he  controlled  his  voice ;  and  the  meeting  proceeded  to 
business.  Several  committees  were  called,  and  reported. 
At  last  they  came  to  the  committee  on  "  Provisions." 
At  this  point  the  meeting  reached  its  crisis.  An  unex 
pected  event  occurred. 

A  difference  had  arisen  in  the  committee  in  respect  to 
the  sandwiches.  It  was  not  as  to  whether  they  should 
have  sandwiches :  that  had  been  carried  unanimously  : 
but  whether  they  should  have  Aara-sandwiches,  or  beef- 
sandwiches.  Upon  this  point  the  committee  had  been 
unable  to  agree ;  and  "  therefore,"  as  the  chairman 
repeated,  "  they  had  voted  to  refer  the  whole  question 
to  the  church ; "  which  they  now  did,  and  asked  for 
instructions. 

A  moment  of  deathlike  stillness  followed  this  an 
nouncement.  Everybody  felt  that  they  were  on  the 
eve  of  a  terrible  explosion.  The  pastor  settled  his  face 
to  a  dead  calm,  and  waited  the  development.  At  last 
a  brother  who  was  seated  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 


BEEF   OB   HAM   SANDWICHES?  27 

room  slowly  arose,  and  said  deliberately,  "  Mr.  Chair 
man,  in  order  to  test  the  sense  of  the  church,  I  move 
you,  sir,  that  the  committee  be  instructed  to  procure 
BEEF-sandwiches."  The  speaker  had  barely  recovered 
his  seat  before  another  brother,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room,  was  on  his  feet.  "  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  he, 
"  I  move  to  amend  Bro.  Go-ahead's  motion  by  striking 
out  the  word  '  beef,'  and  substituting  the  word  '  ham,' 
before  '  sandwiches.' '  The  ball  was  now  opened,  and 
at  it  they  went.  Fossilville  was  not  lacking  in  local 
orators,  and  they  were  not  inclined  to  let  this  oppor 
tunity  slip.  First  the  motion,  then  the  amendment,  was 
advocated;  arguments  from  prophecy,  and  arguments 
from  revelation,  were  adduced  pro  and  con.  History 
was  cited,  science  appealed  to,  chemistry  quoted.  Beef 
was  pronounced  cheaper,  ham  the  more  scriptural. 
Motion  was  added  to  motion,  amendment  piled  upon 
amendment.  Ten  o'clock  came  and  no  vote  had 
been  reached. 

At  this  point  Deacon  Slowup  got  the  floor.  It  was 
evident  to  all  that  he  was  powerfully  wrought  upon. 
He  took  the  gravity  of  the  occasion  all  in.  To  see 
this  night  he  had  been  spared  ;  for  this  emergency  had 


28 


DEACONS. 


Providence   caused   him   to   be   elected    deacon.      He 
arose  to  make  the  speech  of  his  life. 

"  Brethren  and  sisters,"  he  said,  "  this  is  indeed  an 
eventful  moment.     If    ever  a  people  needed  wisdom, 


AT  THIS   POINT  DEACON   SLOWUP   GOT   TIIE   FLOOR. 


we  do  at  this  time.  It  will  be  forty-three  years  next 
December  since  I  was  elected  deacon  of  this  church. 
I  have  seen  many  dark  days  in  its  history,  but  never 
such  a  season  as  this.  I  tremble  for  our  future.  Never 


DEACON   SLOWUP'S   SPEECH.  29 

did  I  expect  to  live  to  see  the  day  when  such  a  motion 
as  this  could  be  discussed  in  this  church.  Such  a  mo 
tion  could  never  have  been  introduced  when  Dr.  Long- 
tongue,  of  sainted  memory,  occupied  the  pulpit  in  the 
room  over  our  heads.  Can  any  brother  or  sister  who 
ever  heard  him  preach  suppose  that  he  would  have 
countenanced  BEEF-sandwiches  ?  Never.  He  would 
have  died  first.  One  brother  says  that  he  does  not  see 
what  difference  it  makes.  As  an  officer  of  the  church, 
as  a  standard-bearer  in  this  branch  of  Zion,  I  warn 
the  brother  against  backsliding :  he  stands  on  slippery 
places.  This  church  can  not  and  will  not  tolerate 
Arminianism.  Only  last  week  I  saw  in  '  The  Phillips- 
town  Gazette '  an  account  of  a  picnic  that  the  Unita 
rian  Church  in  Heresyborough  was  to  hold ;  and  it 
went  011  to  say  that  they  had  voted  to  have  six  thousand 
five  hundred  beef-sandwiches.  My  friends,  who  can 
estimate  the  influence  of  those  six  thousand  five  hun 
dred  beef-sandwiches?  It  is  by  such  subtle  and  cun 
ning  methods  that  error  is  being  promulgated  in  the 
land.  And  now  let  me  ask,  Are  our  children  to  be  filled 
to-morrow  with  Unitarianism,  and  the  church  make  no 
protest  ?  From  the  day  when  it  was  founded,  the  First 


30  DEACONS. 

Congregational  Church  of  Fossil ville  has  always  be 
lieved  in  ham-sandwiches.  Not  that  we  ever  really 
had  them  ;  but  that  was  our  faith,  we  believed  in  them. 
I  do  to-night.  I  wish  every  child  in  the  land  had  a 
ham-sandwich.  I  was  brought  up  on  ham :  it  was  in 
stilled  into  me  in  my  youth.  I  love  it  to-night,  and 
always  shall.  '  Ham  '  is  a  scriptural  word.  I  do  not  at 
this  minute  recall  the  passage ;  but  it  can  be  found  in 
the  Bible.  '  Beef '  is  a  secular  word :  it  is  carnal.  It 
has  been  appropriated  by  error.  Remember,  you  are 
establishing  a  precedent.  If  we  have  beef  this  year, 
we  shall  have  beef  next  year,  our  children  will  grow  to 
love  it,  and  we  shall  never  have  any  thing  but  beef." 

The  deacon  sank  into  his  seat  overpowered  with 
emotion  caused  by  the  picture  he  had  drawn.  Not  a 
word  more  was  said.  The  pastor,  a  young  man,  dis 
missed  the  meeting  without  a  syllable,  and  resigned  his 
charge  the  next  sabbath.  He  was  called,  soon  after,  to 
a  city  church.  The  church  at  Fossilville  has  never 
been  able  to  settle  another  pastor,  and  is  still  divided 
on  the  momentous  question  of  sandwiches.  Ham  and 
beef  have  their  respective  advocates  up  to  this  day. 

My  friends,  I  am  not  to  blame  for  the  lightness  of  my 


"DEACON   SLOWUPS   ARE   EVERYWHERE."  31 

treatment.  I  laugh  at  what  I  cannot  reason  clown  ;  but 
underneath  my  laughter,  and  almost  marring  it,  I  will 
confess  there  comes  a  moan  for  opportunities  lost,  for 
energies  mis-spent,  for  golden  chance  abused.  You 
know  as  well  as  I,  that,  all  up  and  down  New  England, 
churches  have  been  and  are  being  rent  by  questions  of 
no  earthly  moment.  The  church  at  Fossilville  is  typical, 
and  Deacon  Slowups  are  everywhere.  Stupidity  sits  in 
official  stations  ;  and  bigotry  sows  dragons'  teeth  where 
flowers  of  Christian  fellowship  should  spring  and 
bloom.  In  half  our  churches  no  new  measure,  however 
good,  can  be  proposed,  and  not  meet  with  persistent 
opposition.  The  instant  that  seme  plan,  inspired  of 
God  in  zealous  hearts,  is  born,  a  dozen  bony  hands 
clutch  at  its  throat,  and  strangle  it.  Progress,  instead 
of  being  peaceful,  is  made  through  such  tumult  and 
conflict,  that  it  is  almost  robbed  of  profit ;  and  when  the 
needed  change  at  last  is  made,  and  one  counts  up  the 
loss  and  gain,  they  so  nearly  balance  that  you  hesitate 
to  which  side  to  give  your  verdict.  The  motto  in 
these  churches  is,  "  What  has  not  been  shall  not  be." 
I  could  name  church  after  church,  where  a  dozen  men 
sit  like  leeches  on  the  swelling  veins  of  holy  enterprise. 


32  DEACONS. 

They  form  a  minority  powerful  in  their  ignorance  and 
narrowness  and  stupidity.  Their  very  pigheadedness 
constitutes  their  ability  to  resist  what  is  good.  They 
make  it  a  matter  of  conscience,  and  you  must  batter 
them  over  before  you  can  budge  them  an  inch.  By 
them,  religion  is  so  advertised  that  it  becomes  a  target 
for  wit  to  practise  at,  and  a  stumbling-block  to  the 
humane.  Christ  is  made  to  appear  hostile  to  whatever 
is  most  honorable  in  conduct  and  noble  in  aspiration. 
And  Christianity,  the  sweet,  the  beautiful  Christianity 
of  the  New  Testament,  as  they  interpret  it  stands  like 
a  huge  barricade  stretched  across  the  path  of  an  onmov- 
ing  humanity  ;  a  thing  to  be  stormed  over,  and  trampled 
under  foot.  And  so  it  comes  about,  that  men  who  need 
salvation  more  than  life,  alienated  from  our  churches 
by  the  bigotry  and  illiberality  in  them,  die  unsaved. 

I  know  there  is  a  strong  drift  all  over  the  land,  in  our 
generation,  to  wash  men  out  into  a  sea  of  loose  opinions 
and  looser  practices.  Many  are  unwilling  to  abide  by 
the  old  anchorages,  albeit  the  sea  is  white  outside,  and 
the  air  filled  with  patches  of  froth ;  and  those  who  are 
foolish  enough  to  sever  the  stout  cables  that  held  the 
fathers,  and  push  out  into  wild  and  chartless  seas,  fur 


THE   NECESSITY   OF   FAITH.  33 

the  most  part  make  wreck,  and  go  down.  I  tell  you, 
friends,  at  a  time  like  this,  when  the  intellect  of  the 
world  is  stimulated  into  an  almost  frenzied  activity ; 
when  letters  and  science  are  full  of  contradictions  ;  when 
a  thousand  conflicting  influences,  like  the  atmospheric 
commotions  of  a  whirlwind,  revolve  around  us  with  be 
wildering  violence,  and  threaten  to  lift  us  off  our  feet, 
and  spin  us  into  the  air,  —  a  man  must  lay  hold  of  cer 
tain  deeply-rooted,  immovable  truths,  and  link  his  fin 
gers  around  them.  In  religion,  in  politics,  in  his  views 
of  social  development,  he  must  have  some  faith,  some 
deeply-rooted  and  oaklike  confidence,  to  tie  up  to. 
Swinging  with  a  lateral  range  I  care  not  how  far,  held 
by  a  cable  I  care  not  how  long,  he  must,  nevertheless, 
strike  his  grapnel  into  the  cleft  of  some  immovable  rock. 
I  doubt  if  any  who  know  me  would  call  me  a  "  conser 
vative,"  as  that  word  now  is  unfortunately  applied  ;  and 
yet  I  have  not,  and  never  have  had,  any  sympathy  with 
a  radicalism  which  smites  gods  and  mummies  alike  ;  that 
blind,  reckless,  conceited  egotism  which  refuses  to  dis 
criminate  betweeen  the  good  and  the  evil,  the  needed 
and  the  useless,  of  the  past ;  too  vain  to  tread  a  path 
ever  trodden  before,  albeit  by  feet  that  passed  along  it 
to  heaven. 


34  DEACONS. 

The  progress  I  urge,  and  argue  for,  is  of  a  different 
sort.  I  urge  that  our  churches  of  all  denominations  no 
longer  abide  by  maxims,  which,  although  once  proper, 
are  now  ill  suited  to  the  age.  What  I  wish  is  to  set  the 
strong,  lusty  present  face  to  face  with  the  weak  and 
wrinkled  past ;  and  let  the  stout  lungs  of  the  one  breathe 
a  new  vitality  into  the  withered  bosom  of  the  other.  I 
never  let  age,  alone,  sanctify  any  thing,  nor  prejudice 
my  mind  against  it.  If  a  whole  catacomb  of  mummies 
stood  in  the  path  of  a  Pacific  Railroad,  I  would  say  to 
the  engineers,  "  Away  with  these  dry  and  dusty  threads 
of  withered  mortality,  albeit  souls  once  tabernacled 
within  the  circle  of  these  linen  investments  I "  Yet 
some  there  are  who  would  call  this  sacrilege,  and  gaze  in 
holy  reverence  at  the  senseless  objects,  and  sniff  with 
pious  delight  the  scent  of  ancient  embalmment. 

My  friends,  piety  does  not  put  a  man  into  a  strait- 
jacket.  It  does  not  cramp  and  pucker  him  up.  It  does 
not  prescribe  the  fashion  of  his  necktie,  or  goose-poke 
him  with  spinal  stiffness.  Those  who  think  that  it  is  an 
unpardonable  sin  to  row  a  boat,  or  shoot  a  rifle,  and  ride 
a  horse  so  as  not  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself  or  kill  the 
horse,  are  not  up  in  their  exegesis. 


"THE  SYMBOL  OF  CHRISTIANITY  WAS  A  KENT  BANNER,"  ETC. 
Page  37. 


CHRISTIANITY  IS   SWIFT   OF   FOOT.  37 

These  croakers  should  know  that  Christianity  is  not 
owl-like  or  bat-like.  She  does  not  mope  in  dismal 
places ;  and  the  most  timid  child  is  not  afraid  to  look 
into  her  eyes.  She  is  full  of  adaptiveness.  She  is 
many-sided,  and  swift  of  foot;  and  the  world,  in  its 
fast-racing  progressiveness,  cannot  outrun  her.  In 
ages  of  persecution  she  showed  men  her  heroic  side ; 
and,  thus  inspired,  they  went  unflinchingly  to  the  stake. 
In  days  of  revolution,  when  the  world  is  about  to  give 
birth  to  a  higher  liberty,  she  whets  the  edge  of  the 
sword,  and  swells  up  in  patriotic  songs  around  blazing 
camp-fires.  There  have  been  times  in  the  history  of 
the  race,  when  the  symbol  of  Christianity  was  a  rent 
banner,  her  herald  a  cavalry  trumpet,  and  her  pulpit 
the  field  men  died  on.  Ours  is  an  age  of  trade,  of 
commercial  combinations,  of  material  development,  and 
scientific  investigation.  She  adapts  herself  to  it ;  and 
her  symbol  to-day  is  the  white  sail  of  a  ship,  a  chemical 
laboratory,  and  an  axe  sunk  into  the  root  of  a  tree. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  some  in  our  churches  will  not 
open  their  eyes  enough  to  see  that  the  world  is  chan 
ging  rapidly,  and  that  the  Church  herself  must  change 
in  the  phases  of  her  experience,  and  the  means  and 


38  DEACONS. 

methods  of  her  growth  and  power?  One  thing  may  as 
well  be  taken  as  settled :  that,  if  the  Church  would 
direct  the  age,  she  must  keep  in  the  van  of  the  age. 
The  world  is  forging  ahead,  and  Deacon  Slowups 
must  get  out  of  the  way.  The  Church  has  been 
represented  by  dyspeptic  and  consumptive  men  long 
enough.  We  have  been  trying  for  seventy  years,  in 
New  England,  to  run  our  pulpits  on  nervous  forces 
alone.  It  is  a  failure.  The  pulpits  have  broken  down 
under  the  experience.  I  hope  to  live  to  see  the  day  in 
Boston  City,  when  a  stoop  in  the  back  will  be  unortho 
dox,  and  a  narrow  chest  put  a  theological  student  at 
an  immense  disadvantage  in  candidating.  A  church 
should  examine  a  pastor-elect  touching  hygiene  as 
closely  as  touching  his  theological  tenets,  and  Dio 
Lewis  be  recognized  as  a  wise  teacher  as  well  as  St. 
Paul.  A  diseased  eye  unfits  a  surgeon  for  practice, 
and  a  diseased  stomach  unfits  a  man  to  use  that  knife 
which  pierceth  to  the  joints  and  marrow.  All  down 
through  history,  God  has  always  selected  healthy,  out 
door  men  to  be  his  mediums  through  whom  to  com 
municate  with  the  race.  Take  Moses,  —  this  is  not 
fancy :  run  over  the  list,  —  Joshua,  Elijah,  David,  the 


OUT-DOOR   MEN.  39 

apostles,  Christ  himself:  all  were  out-door  men. 
Adam  lived  principally  in  the  country ;  and  John  saw 
heaven  in  vision  when  camping  out  on  the  Isle  of 
Patmos.  This  thing  will  settle  itself  in  a  few  years. 
Americans  are  not  fools ;  and  they  will  see  which  class 
of  men  do  the  most  work,  and  the  most  telling  work. 

Bronchitis  and  consumption  —  I  say  nothing  against 
them,  though  I  wish  nothing  to  do  with  them  myself — 
will  be  looked  upon  as  a  misfortune,  and  not  to  be 
regarded  as  proof  of  high  scholarship,  and  sound 
ness  in  doctrine,  as  they  have  been,  and  are  still  in 
many  of  our  rural  churches.  Why,  friends  !  I  know 
what  I  am  saying.  A  man  who  says  nothing  but  what 
stares  at  him  from  a  manuscript  is  not  careless  of 
speech.  I  was  born  and  brought  up  among  people  like 
those  I  am  describing.  I  have  served  in  country 
churches  for  years ;  I  have  preached  in  a  parish  where 
the  blast  of  a  steam-whistle  had  never  sounded  ;  where 
to  skate  was  unministerial,  and  to  slide  down  hill  a 
sin ;  where  the  crack  of  my  rifle  caused  as  much  ex 
citement  in  the  church  as  the  last  trump ;  and  where, 
if  I  took  a  step  over  fourteen  inches  and  a  half  from 
heel  to  toe,  it  made  the  sewing-society  lively  for  two 


40 


DEACONS. 


weeks.  I  think  the  man  who  came  after  me,  the 
present  incumbent,  could  step  fourteen  feet  at  a  stride, 
and  no  one  notice  that  it  was  longer  than  common. 
And  yet,  to  show  you  how  rapidly  changes  are  going 


'\  f1'!  [i  j'7 

V  ii'Li™        J 


"IT  MADE  THE   SEWING-SOCIETY  LIVELY   FOB  TWO   WEEKS." 

on  in  New  England,  I  had  not  been  gone  six  months 
before  the  church  came  together,  and  chose  two  new 
deacons  out  of  my  rifle-club,  and  they  were  my  best 
shots  at  that. 


THE  UNLOVELY  DEACON.  41 

I  tell  you,  friends,  the  large-hearted,  level-headed 
men  in  our  churches  must  come  to  the  front.  We 
cannot  put  pious  inefficiency  in  office  muc^i  longer.  A 
necklace  of  six  millstones  is  more  than  a  church  can 
wear,  and  keep  her  head  above  water  in  as  rough  seas 
as  heave  us  around  now.  Every  election  in  a  church 
should  be  to  a  service,  and  not  to  a  rank ;  and  the  man 
or  woman  best  calculated  to  do  the  work,  nominated  to 
do  it.  Then,  when  by  reason  of  years,  or  failing  health, 
or  change  in  circumstances,  they  became  unable  to  do 
the  work  intrusted  to  them,  they  would  naturally 
resign,  or  else  the  church  would  depose  them.  I 
counsel  no  harshness,  no  disrespect,  no  unnecessary 
wounding  of  feeling.  But  when  it  comes  to  offending 
one  man,  or  crippling  the  usefulness  of  an  entire  church, 
the  question  is  one  about  which  there  can  be  no 

debate. 

• 

There  is  another  typical  man  whom  one  can  meet 
in  New  England, — the  harsh,  unlovely,  wickedly- 
cunning  deacon.  Nearly  every  pastor  has  met  him 
once  at  least.  I  sketch  his  portrait  in  profile,  and  yet 
I  sketch  it  in  charity.  I  sketch  it  first  as  many  a  pastor 
sees  it  sabbath  by  sabbath,  looking  from  his  pulpit, 

4* 


42  DEACONS. 

with  sad  eyes  and  a  sadder  heart ;  and  then  as  every 
pastor  shall  see  it,  let  us  hope,  ere  it  fades  from  mortal 
sight. 

Deacon  Sharpface  was  a  peculiar  man  :  a  very  unfor 
tunate  man  he  was,  even  at  birth.  His  mother  was 
bilious,  and  his  father  rheumatic ;  and  he  resembled 
both.  To  his  parental  inheritance  he  had  managed  to 
add  dyspepsia ;  and  dyspepsia  to  him  meant  something. 
He  paid  attention  to  it.  He  ate  with  it,  and  slept  with  it. 
It  sharpened  his  countenance,  glared  ferociously  at  you 
through  his  spectacles,  and  sounded  through  his  nose 
when  he  prayed.  He  had  been  a  professor  forty  years, 
but  had  been  re-converted  after  he  had  been  a  member 
of  the  church  thirty,  and  a  deacon  ten.  I  find  no 
fault  with  this.  His  second  conversion  was  rather 
needed.  Even  another  would  have  done  him  no  consid 
erable  injury.  Spiritually  he  needed  the  allopathic 
treatment,  —  large  doses  and  frequent  administrations. 

But,  friends,  whatever  Deacon  Sharpface  lacked  in 
gentleness,  in  charity,  in  the  sweet  graces  of  the  Spirit, 
in  brotherly  kindness,  in  patience,  it  mattered  little, 
fur  he  was  thoroughly  orthodox.  That  saved  him.  If  he 
had  been  a  Parkerite,  or  had  worshipped  with  Brother 


DEACON    SHARPFACE. 


DEACON   SHARPFACE.  45 

Alger,  he  would  have  been  a  terrible  example  of  what 
heresy  could  do.  But  his  orthodoxy  saved  him.  It 
covered  him  with  a  mantle  of  charity,  and  won  him  the 
election  to  the  deaconate. 

That  filled  his  cup  to  overflowing.  It  gave  him 
many  advantages,  chief  among  which  was  this  :  it  gave 
him  a  lifelong  opportunity  to  defend  the  old  faith. 
Never  did  a  man  improve  an  opportunity  better.  Woe 
to  the  preacher  who  preached  before  Deacon  Sharpface, 
especially  if  he  was  a  young  man  !  He  listened  to  every 
sermon,  from  beginning  to  end,  only  to  discover  heresy. 
Any  unusual  form  of  expression  was  instantly  noted 
down.  If  a  text  was  misquoted,  he  was  in  ecstasy,  and 
the  hard  lines  of  his  face  absolutely,  for  once,  relaxed  as 
if,  somewhere  in  its  cadaverous  recesses,  there  yet 
remained  the  corpse  of  an  unburied  smile.  A  sermon 
was  an  intellectual  refreshment,  and  prayers  he  enjoyed 
pencil  in  hand.  I  have  said  that  the  deacon  was  unfor 
tunate,  —  unfortunate  in  his  nature,  his  education,  and 
his  temper ;  but  his  greatest  misfortune  was  the  time  of 
his  birth.  He  was  born  nineteen  hundred  years  too 
late.  He  should  have  been  a  Pharisee,  and  a  member 
of  the  Sanhedrim,  at  the  time  of  Christ. 


46 


DEACONS. 


Now,  you  think  that  is  harsh.  Well,  I  will  hang  the 
two  faces  side  by  side  for  a  moment,  and  you  shall 
look  into  their  eyes.  Like  a  Pharisee,  this  New-Eng 
land  deacon  was  bigoted.  It  was  the  joke  of  the  city. 


HE  LISTENED  TO   EVERY   SERMOX.' 


Like  a  Pharisee,  he  was  spiritually  proud.  Like  a  Phar 
isee,  he  was  fond  of  traditions.  What  had  not  the 
mould  and  mildew  of  age  upon  it  must  be  an  error: 
whatever  had,  from  that  fact  became  the  highest  wisdom. 


POOR   MRS.    SHARPFACE. 


47 


Like  a  Pharisee,  he  was  sharp  in  his  judgments,  and 
bitter  in  his  speech.  His  wife  knew  that  best.  Like  a 
Pharisee,  he  loved  to  have  his  goodness  recognized. 
He  loved  to  have  it  known  in  the  great  gatherings  of 


"  HIS   WIFE   KNEW  THAT  BEST." 

his  denomination,  where  the  lay  and  clerical  dignitaries 
met,  that  he  was  the  senior  deacon  of  a  great  metro 
politan  organization.  But  the  strength  of  his  position 
in  that  church,  the  granite  barricade,  behind  which  the 


48  DEACONS. 

miserable  man  crouched  to  cast  forth  stones  at  better 
people  than  himself,  was  his  undoubted  orthodoxy. 

My  friends,  we  shall  pass,  but  the  influence  of  our 
words  and  deeds  will  never  pass.  If  wrong  be  in  our 
lives,  then  shall  it  live,  and  give  us  evil  representation, 
when  we  are  gone.  If  good  be  of  us,  then,  long  after 
we  are  in  our  graves,  will  it  grow,  and  walk  the  earth 
in  power,  and  be  among  the  majestic  forces  of  the  world. 
Oh  for  the  discerning  eye,  therefore  ;  the  judgment  well 
instructed,  and  unbiassed  by  the  pressure  of  any  passion ; 
a  conscience  quick ;  and  a  love  which  wears  the  Golden 
Rule  upon  its  brow,  as  a  queen  takes  her  largest  jewel, 
and  binds  it  to  her  forehead,  on  a  public  day!  And 
here  once  more  I  make  my  record :  if  orthodoxy 
means  knowledge  of  words  only ;  if  it  means  defence  of 
ancient  forms  and  usage  once  valuable,  now  useless,  left, 
like  camps,  far  in  the  rear  by  the  world  in  its  progressive 
movements,  which,  like  an  army,  stays  not  in  one  place, 
but  is  forever  on  the  move,  inspired  by  the  command  to 
"  march  on ; "  if  it  means  a  narrow  view  of  men  and 
things ;  if  it  arms  one  hand  of  God  with  thunder,  but 
takes  the  branch  of  mercy  from  the  other ;  if  it 
means  a  clannish  love  for  doctrines  based  on  one  of  a 


ORTHODOXY.  49 

dozen  forms  of  interpretation,  but  neglect  of  charitable 
practice ;  if  it  means  bitterness  towards  any  human 
being,  or  severance  from  the  growing  sense  of  human 
brotherhood  which  now,  beyond  all  other  tendencies, 
represents  the  pentecostal  influence  ;  if  it  thinks  that 
Boston  can  be  converted  by  Westminster  Catechisms, 
and  not  by  bread  for  the  starving,  clothing  for  the 
naked,  knowledge  for  the  ignorant,  improved  dwellings 
for  the  poor,  and  charity  toward  all,  —  if  it  means  this, 
I  say,  for  one,  I  will  have  none  of  it. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  uses  words  as  a  mirror 
through  which  to  see  the  will  and  wish  of  God  reflected ; 
if  it  means  discarding  what  was  local  and  temporary 
in  the  past,  but  holding  stoutly  on  to  the  universal ;  if  it 
means  keeping  the  old  anchors  on  deck  for  emer 
gencies  of  tempest,  but  spreading  below  and  aloft 
every  inch  of  canvas  for  swift  traffic  in  those  humani 
ties  calculated  to  elevate  the  race  ;  if  it  means  the 
highest  culture  of  the  intellect,  the  widest  play  of  the 
affections,  reverence  towards  God,  and  sincere  love  for 
all  mankind,  —  if  it  means  this,  I  say,  then  will  I  love 
it ;  and  it  shall  be  the  platform  of  my  utterances  in  life, 
and  the  couch  on  which,  when  life  is  spent,  I  will  lie 
down  in  gravity  and  peace  to  die.  5 


50  DEACONS. 

And  so,  at  last,  it  seemed  to  Deacon  Sharpface.  The 
years  grew  on  apace ;  time  bore  heavily  on  him  ;  and  the 
forces  of  his  mind  and  body,  like  a  receding  tide,  ebbed 
away.  Upon  his  bed,  new  visions  came  to  him.  At 
dead  of  night,  in  the  stillness  of  his  chamber,  from  which 
he  felt  that  he  should  never  more  go  forth  until  the  angels 
lifted  him,  angels  came,  and  ministered  to  his  soul. 
Within  his  bosom,  like  a  well  in  a  desert,  was  opened  a 
fountain  of  new,  of  precious,  and  at  first  of  unutterable 
thoughts.  His  temper,  like  a  sea  long  ruffled,  whose 
action  was  too  often  like  the  rush  of  waves,  no  longer 
poured  upon  by  gust  and  gale  of  human  infirmity,  sub 
sided;  and  its  hasty  impulses  settled  gradually  but 
surely  to  a  blessed  calm.  Its  fret  and  fever  left  him. 
His  prejudices  died  out.  The  haughty  pride  that  had 
distinguished  him  left  its  throne  ;  and  sweet  Humility 
timidly,  as  to  an  unaccustomed  place,  came  in,  and,  true 
to  her  nature,  seated  herself  upon  the  footstool.  Love 
stole  to  her  side ;  and  the  two,  like  long-parted  sisters, 
with  brimming  eyes,  and  hands  joined,  —  what  power 
might  ever  part  them  ?  —  sat  there  together,  saying  each 
to  the  other,  "  My  sister  forever  and  forever." 

The  time  wore  on ;  and  his  life,  like  a  rich  autumn 


THE  DEACON'S  CONVERSION.  51 

day,  grew  lovelier  as  it  drew  to  its  close.  He  sent  for 
all  his  friends.  They  saw  the  blessed  change,  and 
spoke  of  it  in  whispers,  marvelling.  He  sent  for  all  his 
enemies,  —  and  he  had  many,  —  and  parted  with  every 
man  in  peace.  Last  of  all  he  sent  a  few  lines,  pen 
cilled  with  feeble  hand,  praying  that  his  pastor  would 
come ;  and  he  came,  the  man  of  God,  and  stood  beside 
him,  all  others  being  decorously  without.  The  deacon 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  features, 
and  sweetened  all  his  face  ;  and  he  said,  — 

"  My  pastor,  I  have  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  what  the 
Lord  has  done  to  me  in  sickness,  and  rejoice  your  soul. 
My  eyes  are  open,  brother,  and  I  see  as  never  before. 
God  does  not  seem  as  he  once  did  to  me  :  he  is  not 
such  as  I  supposed ;  he  is  more  gracious,  more  loving. 
The  Bible  does  not  seem  as  it  once  did  :  it  is  a  sweeter 
book ;  a  revelation,  not  of  wrath  and  judgment,  but  of 
a  sweet,  a  deathless  mercy.  O  my  brother !  for  years 
I  read  it  wrongly.  Men  lost  by  my  mistake :  but  I 
lost  more  than  they  ;  for  I  missed  peace,  and  the  mul 
tiplying  joys  that  come  of  merciful  thoughts,  and  the 
rich  pleasure  of  loving.  But  I  see  better  now ;  yes,  I 
see  better  now." 


52 


DEACONS. 


He  paused  a  moment,  pressed  with  weakness.  His 
pastor  lifted  him  upon  the  pillow,  and  placed  the  pil 
low,  with  the  whiter  head  upon  it,  against  his  own 
breast.  The  deacon  rested  thus  a  moment,  like  a  tired 
child,  and  then  he  said,  — 


"MY   EYES    ARE    OPEN,   BROTHER." 

"  My  pastor,  I  have  wronged  you  more  than  once.  I 
might  have  helped  you  more,  and  grieved  you  less. 
And  here  I  make  the  restitution  of  a  dying  man:  I 


"MY   EYES   AEE   OPEX,    BROTHER."  53 

crave  forgiveness.  You  need  not  speak :  I  know  I 
have  it,  for  I  know  your  nature.  You  thought  of  God 
one  way,  I  another ;  and  our  natures  grew  in  harmony 
with  our  respective  thoughts  :  but  now  we  think  alike, 
and  I  know  your  feelings  by  my  own.  And  now,  my 
brother,  the  God  of  whom  you  told  me  in  the  sanc 
tuary,  in  whom  I  did  not  then  believe,  but  do  to-day, 
—  the  God  of  infinite  mercy  bless  you!  Go  on  as  you 
have  gone :  tell  men  of  his  love  ;  tell  them  of  his 
truth ;  publish  his  wrath  at  intervals,  only  to  check 
the  vicious,  and  make  a  dark  background  on  which  to 
sketch  the  whiteness  of  his  mercy.  Here  on  my  dying 
bed,  and  with  my  dying  breath,  remembering  all  our 
past  differences,  and  my  bitter  words,  and  taking  them 
all  back  like  ashes  to  my  mouth,  I  simply  charge  you 
to  go  on." 

But  here  the  deacon  paused.  His  breath  came 
short  and  quick,  each  breath  a  gasp.  He  reached 
his  hands  up  feebly,  and  drew  his  pastor's  face  down 
to  his  own,  and  kissed  it,  —  kissed  it  twice,  once  on 
either  cheek ;  for  the  two  men  had  drawn  so  nigh  to 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  that  they  had  become  like  little 
children,  and,  white-headed  as  they  were,  were  not 

5* 


54  DEACONS. 

ashamed  to  kiss  each  the  other.  And  then  a  light  broke 
over  all  his  countenance  ;  a  look  of  wonder  and  recog 
nition  came  to  his  eyes,  now  dim  with  that  gray  mist 
which  comes  at  last  to  all  of  us ;  his  lips  parted  to 
speak  the  words  that  came  not  forth,  —  parted,  quivered, 
closed ;  and  the  deacon,  prepared  at  last  in  under 
standing  to  meet  his  God,  prepared  in  heart  to  say 
farewell  to  men,  passed  up,  to  dwell  unvexed  forever 
amid  the  glory  of  the  everlasting  light. 

My  friends,  as  a  public  man,  I  presume  I  have  had 
my  share  of  enemies.  I  have  probably  been  pelted  up 
to  the  full  average ;  at  least,  I  hope  the  average  is  not 
much  higher ;  and  this,  as  one  whose  path  has  not 
been  altogether  smooth,  I  wish  to  say  to  you  :  that  the 
longer  I  live,  and  the  more  I  know,  the  larger  seems  to 
me  the  proportion  of  good  men.  Never  before  did  the 
world  seem  so  lovely,  or  men  so  kind.  Never  before 
did  the  suffrage  in  favor  of  frankness  and  honesty 
appear  to  me  so  large.  The  world  grows  to  be  more 
and  more  delightful  in  its  friendships,  and  noble  in  its 
loves.  In  the  class  whose  exceptional  cases  furnish 
me  with  my  theme,  true  piety  has  been  the  rule,  harsh 
ness  and  meanness  the  exception.  Where  I  have  found 


DEACON  GOODHEABT.  55 

one  to  resist,  I  have  found  a  dozen  to  applaud.  Among 
these  I  have  found  many  of  my  warmest  friends ;  men 
of  the  widest  knowledge,  the  most  Christlike  spirit, 
and  the  most  progressive  minds ;  men  zealous  in  every 
good  word  and  work ;  and  now  one  of  these,  as  my 
last  portrait,  I  will  present.  I  lift  the  curtain,  and, 
behold,  Deacon  Goodheart  stands  before  you. 

Deacon  Goodheart — may  his  tribe  increase!  —  was 
deacon  in  one  of  the  stiffest  Orthodox  churches.  Of 
its  orthodoxy,  according  to  the  letter  of  the  law,  there 
was  no  doubt.  Its  creed  would  have  made  Calvin 
himself  laugh.  There  is  but  one  word  that  precisely 
describes  it:  it  is  "  stiff"  The  church  was  organized  in 
troublesome  times.  Every  now  and  then,  you  know, 
society  is  seized  with  a  spasm :  a  wild  desire  for  some 
thing  new,  a  desire  to  tear  down  and  demolish,  takes 
possession  of  the  public  mind.  It  breaks  out  and 
rages  in  the  midst  of  a  community,  like  an  epidemic 
among  children,  which  never  kills  anybody,  but  makes 
the  old  folks  anxious.  Well,  some  sixty  years  back, 
Boston  had  such  an  experience  theologically.  It  was 
a  pretty  sharp  attack ;  and  the  joints  were  all  loosened, 
the  nerves  excited,  and  every  thing  shook.  The  fathers 


56  DEACONS. 

and  mothers  in  Israel,  and  all  those  who  loved  the  old 
order  of  things,  —  the  word  of  God  as  it  had  been 
interpreted,  and  that  stern,  but  magnificent  system 
of  ethics,  which  may  make  its  disciples  bigoted,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  makes  it  possible  for  men  and  women 
to  sleep  safely  at  night  with  the  doors  and  windows 
of  their  houses  unfastened,  —  these,  I  say,  were 
alarmed;  and  certain  grouped  themselves  together, 
and  formed  a  church.  Under  such  circumstances,  it 
is  not  surprising,  that,  when  they  came  to  form  a  creed, 
they  should  make  it  decidedly  stiff.  They  loved  the 
old  faith,  the  faith  of  the  fathers,  the  faith  that  had 
made  New  England  the  birthplace  of  heroic  men,  and 
filled  their  days  with  toil,  and  sent  them  to  their  graves 
magnificently,  as  warriors  who  sleep  at  evening  on  the 
field  they  have  gloriously  won.  These,  I  say,  were 
not  ashamed  of  their  faith,  and  they  were  willing  the 
city  should  know  it.  Whatever  was  decided,  therefore, 
whatever  was  unequivocal,  whatever  was  obnoxious 
to  the  current  opinion,  whatever  was  gnarled  and 
tough  and  unhewed,  in  the  old  faith,  they  spiked  it  all 
in.  Their  ship  was  ungainly :  its  lines  were  not  sym 
metrical,  its  masts  were  short,  its  sailing-qualities  poor. 


AN  OLD-TYPE  ORTHODOX  CHURCH.        57 

But  you  could  not  sink  it ;  for  its  compartments  were 
filled  with  the  buoyancy  of  the  gospel,  and  its  sides 
plated  with  six-inch  proof-texts,  and  turreted  with  the 
thunders  of  the  law.  More  than  once  have  the  wit  and 
culture  of  the  city  laughed  at  its  ungainliness,  and 
the  sceptic  darkened  the  air  around  it  with  the  arrows 
of  his  sarcasm:  but  more  than  once  have  wit  and 
culture  acknowledged  with  pride  its  steadfastness ;  and 
more  than  once  has  New  England  rocked  when  its 
turrets  began  to  revolve  for  action. 

Of  such  a  church,  severe,  strict,  with  a  hypocrite 
and  bigot  here  and  there  in  it,  our  friend  was  elected 
deacon.  His  election  was  a  miracle ;  that  is,  unac 
countable.  In  physique  he  was  not  exactly  corpulent, 
I  won't  say  that :  but  he  was,  to  put  it  mildly,  a  little 
stout ;  and  who  ever  knew  of  an  old-type  orthodox 
church  having  a  fat  man  for  a  deacon  ?  He  was 
an  anomaly,  and  as  large  a  one  as  could  be  gotten  in 
and  out  of  a  pew-door.  I  cannot  say  how  tall  he  was. 
I  never  thought  of  his  height :  no  one  ever  did  when  he 
saw  him.  It  was  not  his  height,  but  his  thickness,  you 
thought  of.  The  deacon,  to  say  the  least,  was  volumi 
nous,  ample,  and  generous.  His  countenance  was  full 


58  DEACONS. 

and  florid,  —  a  fact  which  should  have  cost  him  twenty 
votes  at  his  election ;  and,  when  he  laughed,  it  shook 
and  wrinkled  and  flushed  until  it  looked  no  more  like 
a  deacon's  than  a  forty-pound  watermelon  looks  like  a 
little  warty,  shrivelled,  crooked-necked  gourd.  The 
deacon  served  as  usher  at  the  Rectangular  Church. 
That  word  slipped  off  my  pen  before  I  knew  what  was 
coming  ;  formed  itself,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  ink.  But 
why  I  should  call  it  the  Rectangular  Church,  I  can 
hardly  say ;  perhaps  because  the  name,  by  the  law  of 
association  of  ideas,  suggested  itself  naturally  from  the 
strictness  of  its  doctrines  ;  perhaps  because,  like  authors 
who  cudgel  their  brains  for  a  name  for  a  book,  or 
clergymen  who  write  a  logical  sermon  before  they  select 
a  text,  and  then  take  whatever  they  hit  upon, — you 
see,  I  know  how  it  is  done,  —  no  matter  how  this  is,  the 
deacon  served  as  usher  at  the  Rectangular  Church. 
And  what  an  usher  he  was !  To  see  him  come  sailing 
down  the  aisle,  his  face  beaming  a  benignant  welcome 
upon  you ;  to  be  addressed  as  if  the  whole  church 
belonged  to  you,  and  you  have  only  to  elect  your 
favorite  sitting,  when  every  seat  is  jammed  ;  to  have 
him  act  as  if  your  coming  was  a  personal  favor,  and 


CATHEDRALS   OF   EXCLUSIYENESS.  59 

the  service  would  not  have  been  quite  complete  without 
your  presence,  —  surely  such  an  usher  is  invaluable. 
Why,  friends,  Deacon  Goodheart's  face,  hung  over  the 
front  entrance  of  a  church  that  didn't  cost  over  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  could  fill  every  seat  in  it 
within  ten  minutes.  I  limit  the  cost ;  for,  when  a 
church-edifice  costs  over  a  certain  sum,  it  is  not  built 
for  the  people  to  worship  in,  and  the  masses  know  it ; 
and  there  are  churches,  and  in  Boston  too,  that  neither 
the  faces  of  forty  Deacon  Goodhearts,  nor  the  faces  of 
forty  angels  either,  could  ever  persuade  the  common 
people,  the  like  of  whom  heard  the  Saviour  gladly  in 
their  time,  to  enter.  Deeper  than  reason,  friends, 
deeper  than  education,  there  is  in  the  human  heart  an 
instinct  which  warns  the  modest,  the  poor,  and  the 
proud  where  not  to  go.  These  cathedrals  of  exclusive- 
ness,  these  palaces  of  wealthy  piety,  into  which  no 
angels,  enter,  save  such  as  money  has  painted  on  the 
tinted  glass,  and  etched  upon  the  smooth  ceilings ;  these 
temples  of  aesthetic  piety,  built  by  the  few,  for  the  few, 
—  are  useless  for  the  great,  onpushing  work  of  redeem 
ing  man.  Away  with  these  vast  piles  of  chiselled  stone, 
these  ornamental  sepulchres  of  free  utterance,  these 


60 


DEACONS. 


mausoleums  where  sleeps  the  spirit  of  that  warm 
brotherhood  which  had  a  common  treasure !  and  give  us 
buildings  large  enough  for  all,  and  free  to  all. 

Then  shall  great  preachers  arise,  men  as  great  in  utter- 


"THESE  CATHEDRALS  OF  EXCLUSIVEXESS." 

ance  as  the  truths  they  are  sent  to  proclaim,  equally 
inspired  of  God ;  and  the  gospel  be  no  longer  peddled 
from  house  to,  house,  but  preached  with  an  eloquence 
as  classic  as  the  Greeks,  and  as  fervid  as  Isaiah's  lofty 


THE  SHAME  OF  THE  COMMONWEALTH.      61 

verse ;  churches  that  shall  seat  thousands  of  all  faiths 
and  creeds,  drawn  to  one  assemblage  not  by  the  egotism 
of  common  belief,  which  small  men  deem  the  basis  of 
fellowship,  but  by  the  craving  of  a  quick  intelligence 
thirsting  for  knowledge,  by  the  attraction  which  the 
larger  and  magnetic  has  for  the  smaller  and  less  inspired, 
and  by  the  certainty  that  the  independence  of  the 
intellect  shall  be  acknowledged,  and  none  abused  for 
what  they  might  not  help,  the  errors  of  their  thinking. 
But  that  day  will  never  dawn  upon  this  city;  or,  if 
it  comes,  a  change  will  first  come  to  the  hearts  of  the 
men  who  dictate  taste  and  fitness  to  us.  This  Common 
wealth  must  first  feel  the  shame  of  its  heathenism,  the 
shame  of  its  low-browed  ignorance,  the  shame  of  its 
red-eyed  drunkenness,  the  shame  of  its  popular  broth 
els,  its  swarming  jails,  and  the  perils  of  its  brute- 
necked  violence,  or  ever  churches  will  be  built  to  serve 
the  end  which  alone  justifies  their  erection. 

But  Deacon  Goodheart  was  something  more  than  an 
usher :  he  was  the  best  of  deacons.  He  was  not  rich  in 
money,  and  yet  no  one  deemed  him  poor  ;  for  the  church 
all  felt  that  he  had  great  riches  laid  up  somewhere  ahead 
of  him,  and  that  he  would  come  to  them  one  day,  and 


62  DEACONS. 

be  as  rich  as  the  richest.  His  pastor  loved  him  best, 
because  he  knew  him  best ;  for  he  knew  him  in  his 
deeds ;  and  who  knows  a  Christian  until  he  knows  him 
so  ?  He  heard  his  name  spoken  in  love  by  the  poor  and 
sick,  and  those  whom  the  great  roaring  world  forgets 
because  of  their  littleness  ;  and  more  than  once,  when 
kneeling  himself  beside  a  humble  bed  in  some  narrow 
room,  he  had  heard  the  deacon's  name  spoken  with  grat 
itude,  and  coupled  with  blessing,  with  that  greatest 
name  given  under  heaven  and  among  men ;  spoken  by 
lips  that  smiled  in  dying,  but  which  would  have  had 
no  smile  had  it  not  been  for  what  the  deacon's  teaching 
and  alms  had  done  for  them.  His  praise  was  spoken  in 
lowly  places,  —  in  chambers  of  neat  poverty,  in  the 
hushed  room  of  sickness,  and  in  those  little  narrow 
dormitories  built  for  the  indigent  aged.  In  places  such 
as  these,  and  not  in  public  halls  and  on  the  great 
exchange,  his  praise  was  mentioned :  where  else  ?  In 
heaven :  is  yours,  friend  ? 

The  deacon  had  his  faults ;  but  they  seemed,  like 
the  stains  upon  a  lady's  garment,  the  result  of  acci 
dent,  not  of  design.  They  were  of  nature,  and  not 
of  will;  a  kind  of  birthmark  inherited  from  Adam, 


DEACON   GOODHE  ART'S   FACE.  63 

or  some  one  way  back.  His  face  was  like  a  full 
moon,  flushed  with  summer's  warmth :  you  remember 
how  it  looks,  —  a  perfect  sphere  of  beaming  benignity. 
Mirth  looked  laughingly  out  of  his  eyes,  peered 
roguishly  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  sat 
demurely  on  his  rounded  chin.  His  face  was  a  constant 
challenge  to  humor.  The  language  of  its  look  was, 
"  Say  something  funny,  and  see  me  laugh."  The  chil 
dren  all  loved  him,  of  course.  He  won  their  love  by 
loving  them.  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  had  loved  God,  did 
we  not  know  that  he  first  loved  us.  Whenever  he 
came  in  sight,  they  swarmed  around  him.  They  would 
climb  his  knees  and  back,  and  perch  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  cling  laughingly  around  his  neck,  until  he  looked 
like  a  pyramid  covered  with  morning-glories.  He  had 
no  children  after  the  flesh  himself ;  but  he  counted  his 
children  after  the  spirit  by  scores  and  hundreds,  and 
was  a  kind  of  universal  father  to  them  all.  And,  when 
the  deacon  dies,  his  going  hence  will  make  more 
children  glad  in  heaven,  and  sad  on  earth,  than  the 
death  of  any  other  man  I  know. 

Ecclesiastically,  judged  by  the  traditional  standard, 
the  deacon  was  entirely  unsuited  to  his  office.     He  was 


64  DEACONS. 

not  great  in  prayer ;  that  is,  he  did  not  tell  the  Lord 
all  that  he  had  done,  and  how  he  came  to  do  it,  since 
the  creation ;  which  was  not  deacon-like.  I  never  heard 
him  begin  with  Genesis  but  once  ;  and  then  he  got  no 
farther  than  the  Food,  when  he  lost  his  footing,  and 
broke  down.  Worse  even  than  this  peculiarity,  was 
the  fact  that  his  memory  was  so  bad,  that  he  never 
used  the  same  prayer  twice  ;  which  is  an  unpardonable 
eccentricity  in  a  deacon.  Indeed,  he  was  full  of  imper 
fections.  He  would  often  make  an  exhortation  without 
quoting  a  text  of  scripture.  He  very  rarely  wept  when 
he  spoke,  which  detracted  materially  from  his  influence 
with  a  certain  class  ;  nor  did  he  ever  boast  what  the 
Rectangular  Church  had  done  in  the  past,  and  congrat 
ulate  mankind  in  general  that  it  still  existed.  In  fact, 
he  was  a  very  queer  and  most  extraordinary  deacon. 
His  prayers  were  simple,  direct,  and  confidential  as  a 
child's  first  penitential  talk  with  a  gentle-hearted, 
sweet-faced  mother  ;  although  at  times  his  voice  would 
swell  into  a  tone  of  exultation,  and  a  light  spread  ovei 
his  lifted  face,  as  if,  in  answer  to  his  prayer,  some 
angel  had  come  down,  and  was  hovering  for  a  moment, 
on  wings  of  light,  above  his  raised  countenance.  Nor 


DEACON  GOODHEART'S  PRAYER.      65 

was  he  fluent.  At  times  lie  stammered ;  but  his  stam 
mering  sounded  like  the  hesitation  of  a  lowly  person 
called  upon  to  plead  his  cause  before  a  king,  and  who 
scarcely  knew  how  to  express  himself  in  such  a  pres 
ence.  And  once  he  broke  entirely  down,  came  to  a 
dead  stop.  He  was  praying,  that  evening,  for  those 
who  did  not  pray  for  themselves,  —  for  those  "  unblessed 
ones,"  as  he  expressed  it,  "  who  do  not  know  the  joy 
of  holy  utterance,  or  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  talk 
with  thee,  O  God ! "  And  here  the  thought  of  their 
deprivations  oppressed  him,  or  else  he  missed  the 
proper  word ;  for  he  staggered  in  speech,  and  suddenly 
sat  down ;  and  a  great  silence  fell  on  the  room,  and  no 
one,  of  all  the  hundreds  present,  lifted  his  head  for  a 
full  minute  ;  and  nothing  was  heard  unless  it  was  a 
smothered  sob  here  and  there.  But,  in  spite  of  this 
verbal  deficiency,  the  people  loved  to  hear  him ;  and 
the  business  men  who  knew  him  on  the  street,  and  who 
made  money  many  times  faster  than  he,  listened  re 
spectfully  to  him  when  he  spoke  to  them  in  meeting, 
touching  the  manner  of  life  which  they  should  live  day 
by  day  in  order  to  gain  the  better  life  to  come. 

But  it  was  what  he  did,  and  his  way  of  doing  it,  and 

6* 


66  DEACONS.  • 

not  what  he  said,  that  made  his  name  so  fit  and  mirror- 
like  to  his  character. 

It  was  night  —  a  night  such  as  the  rich  love,  and  the 
poor  hate  ;  cold,  bitter,  and  piercing.  The  air  was  full 
of  snow,  soggy  and  damp;  while  ever  and  anon  a 
shower  of  sleet  half-frozen,  mingled  with  hail,  plunged 
downward,  or  was  slashed  heavily  against  the  walls 
of  the  houses.  The  winds  were  rampant :  they  roared 
around  the  corners,  careered  along  the  streets,  shook 
the  shutters  of  the  houses,  and  wrestled  at  the  lamp 
posts  until  the  gas-jets  flared  and  sputtered  in  deadly 
fear  lest  they  should  be  extinguished.  It  was  a  night 
to  be  remembered  in  mansion  and  garret  alike.  How 
warm  the  velvet  carpet,  how  cheerful  the  glowing 
grate,  how  rich  the  dark  woods  look,  how  gay  the 
laughter  sounds,  and  how  the  swell  of  music  rises, 
where  love  and  plenty  sit  when  the  storm  roars  with 
out,  and  the  snow  drives  against  the  curtained  pane  I 
What  a  sense  of  comfort,  and  the  luxury  of  warmth, 
steals  over  one  as  he  sits,  slippered  and  gowned,  before 
the  red  coals  on  such  a  night !  Never  is  warmth  so 
warm,  never  luxury  so  luxurious,  never  wealth  so  satis 
factory,  as  then. 


IT  WAS  NIGHT 


u  IT   WAS    NIGHT."  69 

But  to  those  who  live  in  garrets,  or  burrow  in  cellars, 
such  a  night  is  terrible.  Black  as  the  heavens  seems 
to  them  their  fate.  Oh  the  lack  of  clothing  !  oh  the 
absence  of  light !  How  the  old  rookery  shakes  as  the 
gale  smites  it !  How  the  snow  sifts  through  the  ill- 
thatched  roof,  or  whirls  in  eddies  across  the  uneven 
floor !  How  the  healthy  curse,  and  the  sick  moan, 
and  the  drunken  rave  or  lie  in  leaden  sleep,  while  the 
limbs  stiffen,  and  the  soul  steals  shiveringly  out  of  the 
unwarmed  body,  and  is  borne  away  by  the  colder 
winds ! 

It  was  on  such  a  night  that  Deacon  Goodheart  left 
his  snug  home,  his  warm  fireside,  and  his  loving  spouse, 
who  muttered  at  his  going,  and  yet,  womanlike,  loved 
him  all  the  better  in  her  heart  for  doing  it,  and  started 
out  in  search  of  those  who  needed  the  Christian's  loaf 
and  the  Christian's  presence.  Few  deacons,  I  ween, 
were  on  the  streets  that  night.  It  is  so  much  easier, 
you  know,  good  friends,  to  pray  for  the  poor  in  your 
snug  chambers,  with  your  hands  laid  softly  on  the 
warm  flannel  and  the  white  pillow  waiting  you,  than 
to  go  forth  into  the  cold  snow,  and  wade  your  way 
toward  the  fulfilment  of  your  prayer.  But  the  good 


70  DEACONS. 

deacon  —  God  bless  him,  and  all  like  him,  in  and  out  of 
the  church !  —  had  a  queer  theology ;  and  he  held  that 
He  who  works  by  means,  and  not  by  miracles,  makes 
man  the  agent  by  whom  to  answer  his  own  prayers ;  and 
he  used  to  say, — but  the  senior  deacon  of  the  church 
called  it  rank  heresy,  —  he  used  to  say  that  deacons 
never  prayed  aright  unless  they  went  and  did  them 
selves  what  they  asked  God  to  do.  Thus  upheld, 
buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  warmly  gloved,  he  opened 
the  door  of  his  dwelling,  arid  plunged  out  into  the 
darkness. 

Now,  the  deacon  was  no  gymnast.  He  had  never 
practised  on  the  trapeze.  He  was  large,  as  I  have  hinted, 
and  not  remarkably  agile.  The  snow  lay  a  foot  in  depth, 
the  flagging  was  iced  beneath  ;  and,  as  he  stepped  boldly 
off  into  the  drift,  some  of  you  may  imagine  the  result. 
The  deacon  slipped,  —  even  deacons  do  make  a  slip 
occasionally,  —  the  deacon  slipped,  I  say ;  slipped  with 
both  feet  at  once  ;  slipped,  and  sat  down.  It  was  well 
done,  as  only  a  deacon  of  his  size  could  do  it.  He  was 
a  man  of  decision,  and  he  sat  down  decidedly.  His 
first  thought  was  of  his  wife.  Had  she  seen  him? 
Horrors!  if  she  had!  He  knew  that  he  closed  the 


HE    TWISTED    HIMSELF    ALOUT,"   ETC.     Page  73. 


THE  DEACON'S  FALL.  73 

door  behind  him ;  but  had  she,  in  her  loving  anxiety, 
followed  him  ?  and  were  her  affectionate  eyes  now 
fastened  on  him  ?  He  twisted  himself  about,  and  cast 
a  look  of  agony  at  the  door.  Blessed  absence !  her 
darling  face  was  not  there.  But  had  she  heard  him  ? 
She  must  have.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  shaken 
the  .entire  block  when  he  struck  the  pavement.  But 
no :  the  good  woman  had  resigned  him  to  the  care  of 
Providence  when  he  left  her,  and  Providence  was  now 
dealing  with  him  alone.  Yes,  he  was  unobserved.  A 
feeling  of  sweet  complacency  stole  over  him.  There 
are  positions  perfectly  honorable  in  themselves,  but 
in  which  a  man  does  not  like  to  be  looked  at.  The 
deacon  started  to  get  up :  he  succeeded  only  in  part. 
He  discovered,  with  Carlyle,  that  "  our  successes  are 
part  failures."  He  lifted  himself  on  his  palms  to  the 
full  length  of  his  arms  ;  and  there  he  hung  a  moment, 
hung  dubiously,  and  then  sat  down  again.  The 
deacon  laughed.  Friends,  I  never  eulogize  deacons : 
no  man  ever  heard  me ;  no  one  ever  will.  I  hjad  no 
intention  of  eulogizing  Deacon  Goodheart ;  but  I  sub 
mit  that  it  is  not  every  man  that  can  laugh  all  to  him 
self,  without  company,  after  he  has  sat  down  on  an  icy 


74 


DEACONS. 


pavement  as  decidedly  as  the  good  deacon  had.  I  said 
he  began  to  laugh.  That  laugh  started  him.  He  began 
to  slide.  The  more  he  slid,  the  louder  he  laughed  ; 
and,  the  more  he  laughed,  the  faster  he  slid.  He  slid  as 


THE   MORE   HE    SLID,    THE   LOUDER  HE   LAUGHED. 


if  he  were  greased.  He  slid  like  lightning.  He  swept 
the  sidewalks  like  an  orthodox  whirlwind.  He  lost  his 
personality,  and  looked  more  like  a  dozen  coal -hods 
tied  together,  than  an  officer  of  the  Rectangular  Church, 


"IT  WAS  A  CHILD'S  VOICE."  75 

as  he  came  bowling  along.  At  last  he  finished  his 
declension,  and  began  to  feel  the  reward  of  the  back 
slider.  He  was  literally  "  filled  with  his  own  ways  :  " 
ears,  eyes,  mouth,  shared  in  the  punishment.  He 
shook  himself,  stamped,  smote  his  sides  with  his  palms 
until  he  was  tolerably  free  from  snow,  and  started  on. 
He  was  now  in  a  section  of  the  city  where  the  poor 
and  dissolute  live.  He  was  pushing  on,  when  a  low 
sound  arrested  his  step.  He  paused  to  listen,  and  again 
he  heard  it,  and  this  time  caught  the  direction.  It 
came  from  the  second  story  of  an  old  house  on  his 
left. 

The  deacon  clomb  the  stairs,  which  creaked  and 
groaned  beneath  his  weight  like  a  living  thing  in 
torture :  he  reached  the  hall  above,  and  paused  to 
listen.  A  feeble  moan  penetrated  the  dividing  wall, 
stole  out  into  the  cold  air,  and  died  away  amid  the 
roaring  of  the  storm.  It  was  a  child's  voice,  and  the 
sadness  of  it  touched  him  deeply.  He  took  a  traveller's 
candlestick  from  out  his  pocket,  felt  for  a  dry  spot  on 
the  wall  to  draw  the  match,  and  lighted  it.  A  door 
was  right  before  him.  A  noble  door  it  had  been  once, 
of  dark  wood  choicely  wrought —  a  door  through  which 


76  DEACONS. 

the  youth  and  beauty  of  departed  generations  had  often 
passed  in  the  full  pride  of  their  rich  loveliness ;  but 
now  'twas  scarred  and  dinted  as  if  by  blows  of  a 
hatchet,  or  of  rough  things  roughly  thrown;  and  one 
carved  panel  had  been  knocked  entirely  out.  He  lifted 
the  latch,  and  stepped  into  the  room.  Would  that  I 
had  the  power  to  sketch  that  room  as  the  deacon  saw 
it  on  that  night,  that,  sitting  here  in  all  this  light  and 
comfort,  you  might  take  down  to  your  warm  homes  a 
picture  of  one  room  like  those  in  which  the  children 
of  poverty  and  sin  are  born,  and  live  and  die  !  It  was 
the  home  of  desolation.  Cheerlessness  and  discomfort 
reigned  supreme.  Their  sway  was  never  challenged. 
The  fireplace  was  unlighted  by  a  spark.  A  heap  of 
sodden  ashes,  and  a  mound  of  snow,  lay  o'n  the  sunken 
and  cracked  hearthstone.  One  of  the  two  windows 
was  roughly  boarded  up ;  and  the  sash  of  the  other 
bulged  with  rags  stuffed  coarsely  in.  There  were  no 
chairs.  A  mutilated  table  stood  close  against  the  wall, 
evidently  so  placed  to  steady  it;  and  a  rude  bench, 
some  six  feet  long,  without  a  back,  and  rudely  hacked, 
was  drawn  up  in  front  of  it.  In  the  farther  corner 
stood  a  bedstead,  or  what  had  once  been  one ;  but  now 


A    HOME   OF   DESOLATION. 


77 


the  posts,  which  once  were  long,  had  been  sawn  off, 
and  the  headboard  wrenched  away,  doubtless  for  fuel. 
A  heap  of  unbound  straw,  covered  by  an  old  blanket, 
composed  the  bed.  It  was  a  bed  barely  fit  for  a  dog  to 


"  IT  WAS  THE  HOME    OF  DESOLATION." 

lie  on ;  and  yet  a  girl  lay  on  it,  and  a  girl,  too,  born  in 
the  mould  of  beauty.  The  deacon  stood  and  gazed  upon 
her.  In  years  she  might  have  seen  eight  winters.  The 
happy  reckon  life  by  summers,  friends ;  but  wretched- 

7* 


78  DEACONS. 

ness  counts  its  life  by  its  experiences  of  suffering ;  and 
so  I  say  the  girl  that  lay  groaning  on  that  blanket 
might  have  seen  eight  winters.  Her  face  was  white  as 
the  snow  upon  the  floor,  and  almost  as  cold.  Her  little 
features  were  shrunken ;  hunger  had  eaten  away  their 
fulness ;  and  where  your  child,  mother,  has  a  plump, 
round  cheek,  centred  with  a  dimple  which  you  have 
kissed  a  thousand  times,  this  wan  cheek  showed  only  a 
depression.  And  yet,  emaciated  as  it  was,  the  face  was 
lovely.  Starvation  and  sickness  had  done  their  utmost, 
and  yet  had  left  it  beautiful.  Her  hair  was  of  the  color 
of  yellow  gold  shaded  with  bronze,  and  fine  as  unwoven 
silk  blown  out  of  nature's  loom  ;  and  its  tangled  wealth 
swathed  the  coarse  pillow,  and  framed  her  white  face  in 
like  a  rich  aureole  such  as  the  old  painters,  the  great 
masters  of  color,  loved  to  paint  around  the  heads  of  their 
Madonnas.  Her  eyes  were  of  that  gray  which  darkens 
in  feeling,  and  looks  out  at  the  object  of  their  love 
through  a  rich  mist,  when  the  soul  swells  up  into  the 
face  in  moments  of  passion ;  and,  as  she  lifted  them  to 
the  deacon's  countenance  wonderingly,  they  seemed,  in 
contrast  to  her  small  white  face,  strangely  yet  beauti 
fully  large  and  luminous.  The  deacon  sat  upon  the 


"  MY   NAME   IS   MARY."  79 

edge  of  the  bed,  and  took  her  thin  hands  in  his,  and 
said,  "  My  little  girl,  what  is  your  name  ?  "  and  she, 
in  a  low,  weak  voice,  replied,  uMy  name  is  Mary,  sir; 
and  who  be  you  ?  "  —  "  My  name,"  the  deacon  answered, 
"  is  Goodheart ;  and  I  have  come  to  make  you  warm 
and  well  and  happy."  She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
with  her  large  bright  eyes,  as  if  in  doubt  that  he  spoke 
honestly ;  and  then  half  querulously,  as  the  sick 
often  answer,  said,  "  You  have  been  a  long  while  com 
ing,  sir." —  "But  I  am  here  at  last,"  the  deacon  re 
turned,  cheerfully  humoring  her  conceit ;  and  his  great, 
round  face,  sweet  as  a  woman's  in  its  goodness,  lighted 
up  as  he  spoke  :  "  I  am  here  at  last,  Mary ;  and  now  I 
am  going  right  to  work  to  make  you  comfortable,  and 
get  you  well."  —  "  I  never  shall  get  well,  sir,"  she  re 
plied  :  "I  am  going  to  die,  and  be  put  in  the  ground."  — 
"Oh,  no,  you  are  not !"  returned  the  deacon.  "You 
must  get  well.  You  don't  wish  to  die,  do  you?"  — 
"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  she  answered.  "  I  did  not  wish  to  once, 
when  I  could  run  about,  and  keep  warm.  But  it  is  so 
cold  here,  sir !  I  guess  I  shall  be  warmer  in  the  ground; " 
and  a  shiver  ran  through  her  little  frame,  and  sharpened 
her  tiny  features.  The  deacon  rose.  A  startled  look 


80  DEACONS. 

came  to  his  face.  Could  it  be  that  the  child  was  dying? 
He  pulled  off  his  great  fur  coat,  and  placed  it  over  her  (it 
was  so  large  it  covered  all  the  bed)  ;  and  then  he  knelt 
beside  her,  and  smoothed  back  the  tangled  strands  of 
golden  hair  that  swept  her  forehead,  and  soothed  her 
with  low  murmurs  as  a  mother  soothes  her  babe  ;  and 
warmth  came  back  to  her  little  half-frozen  limbs,  and  she 
made  a  motion  as  when  a  child  nestles  for  sleep  ;  and 
the  fringed  lids  drooped  over  the  waxen  skin,  as  a  light 
shadow  outlines  itself  upon  the  snow  in  moonlight. 

The  deacon  smiled.  His  face  brightened  in  hope  ;  and 
he  said  to  himself,  "  If  she  can  only  sleep ! "  and  then 
aloud,  "  Mary,  I  must  leave  you  for  a  little  time.  I  am 
going  to  get  some  wood,  and  make  a  nice,  warm  fire, 
and  bring  you  medicine  and  some  food ;  and  to-mor 
row  I  shall  take  you  home  with  me ;  and,  if  you  wish, 
you  shall  never  leave  me,  but  always  stay,  and  be  my 
little  girl."  The  deacon  said  this  chokingly ;  for  his 
heart  went  out  strangely  toward  the  little  thing,  as  one, 
through  suffering  and  neglect,  given  by  God  to  him. 
And  then,  rising,  he  bent  down  over  her,  and  whis 
pered,  "  Do  you  think  that  you  shall  sleep  now, 
Mary  ?  "  And  she  softly,  as  a  child  speaks,  and  makes 


81 


reply  in  drowsiness,  answered,  "  Yes,  sir :  I  shall 
sleep." 

An  hour  passed  by,  and  the  deacon  entered  the  room 
again,  loaded  with  fuel,  and  supplies  of  comfort.  Pie 
filled  the  fireplace  with  wood,  and  kindled  it,  and 
stood  a  moment,  as  the  flames  leaped  up,  and  dried  his 
wet  hands.  And  then  he  lifted  the  candle  from  the  floor, 
and  stepped  softly  to  the  bed.  Mary  lay  still  hidden 
away  under  the  great  robe.  He  smiled,  and  said, 
"  The  child  sleeps,  and  the  child  shall  live ! "  He 
placed  his  hand  upon  the  cover,  and  folded  it  slowly 
and  gently  back,  until  her  face,  pillowed  amid  its 
wealth  of  golden  hair,  was  seen,  sad  and  white  and 
still.  The  deacon  gazed  a  moment  doubtingly.  He 
bent  his  face  down  over  hers.  A  moment  he  held  it 
there  ;  and  then  he  lifted  it.  A  look  of  reverent  awe, 
a  look  as  of  one  who  has  come  near  to  God,  came  to 
his  countenance ;  and  he  said,  "  The  child  does  in 
deed  sleep,  and  the  child  shall  indeed  live ;  but  her 
sleep  is  not  the  slumber  of  this  earth,  and  her  life  is 
that  forever  lived  with  God." 

And  then,  as  if  stricken  with  the  sense  of  some  great 
loss,  the  fading  out  of  some  bright  hope  that  had  sud- 


82 


DEACONS. 


denly  come  to  him,  and  as  suddenly  left  him,  the  deacon 
knelt;  and  bowing  his  head  upon  his  crossed  arms, 
while  the  wind  roared  outside,  "and  the  firelight  died 
away  in  ghostly  glimmers  along  the  wall,  he  broke  out, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 


M181747 


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